Chapter 55

The river of time surges forward, sweeping across the landscape of Middle-earth and quietly transforming the very fabric of people's hearts. Númenor, the pearl nestled in the Belegaer Sea, reached an unprecedented peak of power and glory during the reign of King Tar-Minastir. Its vast fleets, like a mobile fortress, crisscrossed the seas; the magnificent city of Rómenna, a divine abode, its white towers piercing the clouds; its fertile lands yielded mountains of wealth; its civilization once generously shone upon the coasts of Middle-earth. Yet, beneath this supreme splendor, a cold, corrupt undercurrent began to grow.

The fear of death—this unique gift bestowed upon mankind by Ilúvatar—gradually twisted into an inescapable nightmare amid the long lifespan and extreme prosperity of the Númenor people. This was especially true for the high-ranking nobles, who possessed power and wealth unimaginable to mortals. Yet, they discovered with horror that the signs of aging would still creep upon their faces, and that the shadow of death would eventually shroud their magnificent mansions.

The desire for immortality, like a ravenous poison ivy, entwined their hearts. This yearning didn't originate with Tal-Minastir, but in the later years of his long reign, as he himself grew increasingly aware of the passage of time, it became increasingly open and intense within royal and noble circles. Twisted legends began to circulate within the court about the hidden tales of Valinor, the undying land of the West. They told of the secrets of the elves' eternal youth, and the "unfair" distribution of the Valar—why immortality was granted to the elves while humans were left to decay? In his later years, Tal-Minastir lived a secluded life, often standing on the highest balcony of the palace, gazing westward with a complex gaze, perhaps tinged with a yearning and resentment for the eternal light.

The change of throne became the first clear signpost of the mighty kingdom's path. Tal-Cirjatan, Minastir's eldest son, had ambitions as vast as his name, "Shipbuilder," but he completely betrayed his father's original intention of maintaining friendship with the Elves. Unable to endure the prolonged wait, he deeply resented his father's pro-Elf policies. Taking advantage of his father's exhaustion and fear of death, Tal-Cirjatan united a group of nobles who shared his desire for greater power and wealth and resented the Valar's decrees. Using methods bordering on coercion, Tal-Cirjatan forced Tal-Minastir to hand over the scepter of kingship to him prematurely.

The rise of Tar-Cirjatan was seen as the first clear sign of Númenor's impending collapse. Upon his ascension, the greedy king cast off all pretense. He denounced his father's friendship with the Elves as "cowardice" and "a debasement of Númenor's honor." He turned his sights once again to Middle-earth, but his purpose had completely changed: no longer enlightenment and mutual aid, but outright plunder and conquest.

Under his harsh decrees, Númenor's territory in Middle-earth rapidly transformed from a beacon of light into a machine of exploitation. The previously relatively benign trade rules were abolished, replaced by a harsh system of tribute. Númenor's tax collectors and soldiers became arrogant and domineering. They penetrated deep into the interior, forcing the indigenous human tribes, who had previously been dependent on or peacefully coexisting with the colonies, to hand over wealth far beyond their means—precious woods, rare metal ores, herds of livestock, fine textiles, and even young and strong laborers, who were forcibly conscripted to mine deposits or build magnificent port facilities. Resistance was ruthlessly suppressed, villages burned, and rebels crucified on the roadsides as a warning to others. The people along the coast of Middle-earth suffered terribly. In their eyes, Númenor's "light of civilization" had become a blaze of plunder.

Even more disturbing developments occurred within Númenor itself. With the tacit approval, even connivance, of Tar-Cirjatan, open rebellion against the Valar's decrees began. Nobles who had long harbored doubts about the Valar's injustice began openly discussing their desire for immortality at banquets and salons, mocking the Valar's decrees as "shackles that bind mankind." This sentiment spread like a plague. While disguised as a spice merchant on a procurement trip to Númenor, Meereen overheard several drunken Númenorian sailors in a harbor tavern discussing:

"Why should those pointy-eared creatures live forever? We worked so hard to build such a huge kingdom, but in the end, it's nothing but dust. I think the ban is just to prevent us humans from becoming too powerful."

"That's right! I heard that there's a land in the west where people live forever! Why can't we go there? How can we, the Númenor people, be inferior to the elves?"

These words shocked Meereen. He immediately contacted Gandalf, who was in a nearby human village, and through elven channels, he wrote a secret letter of his observations and urgently delivered it to the members of the White Council in Rivendell. The letter detailed Númenor's brutal oppression of Middle-earth, the Númenoreans' increasingly morbid desire for immortality, and their open disregard for the decrees of the Valar. He warned that Númenor's spiritual foundations were rotting, and if its mighty power was driven by greed and corruption, it would become a source of disaster greater than Sauron's.

The Valar were not unaware of this. The shadow that loomed over Númenor, their desecration of the gift of death and their greed for immortality, like a foul miasma, tainted the unique destiny bestowed upon humanity by Ilúvatar. As a warning, the Valar withdrew some of their favor from Númenor. This wasn't a direct punishment, but rather a necessary consequence: Númenor's glory began to visibly decline. Lands once abundant began to suffer partial crop failures; massive ships encountered increasingly inexplicable storms and shipwrecks; the stonework of some magnificent buildings showed an inexplicable accelerated weathering; and mysterious illnesses and accidental deaths among the people seemed to be on the rise. This should have been a warning for reflection and reflection, but Tar-Ciryatan and his followers interpreted it as evidence of the Valar's "jealousy" of Númenor's power and their deliberate suppression. Fear and resentment intertwined, driving them even more resolutely down the path of depravity.

Meereen's inner uneasiness grew day by day, and one stormy night, in his temporary home on the coast of Middle-earth, he fell into an extremely clear and terrifying precognitive dream:

He hovered above the boundless black void, beneath the magnificent island of Númenor. But now, instead of being bathed in sunlight, the island was shrouded in an ominous, inky shadow. The sky was shattered, and vast, thundering clouds pressed down upon the island like an inverted mountain range. Then, he heard—not with his ears, but with his soul—an indescribable roar from the very foundations of the world, filled with supreme majesty and ultimate destruction! This roar was not a loud bang, but a shattering of laws, a denial of existence!

Amidst this indescribable roar, the boundless sea surrounding Númenor was no longer a gentle azure, but a seething, inky black abyss of rage! Raging waves towered into the clouds, taller than the walls of Eregion and more terrifying than the peaks of the Misty Mountains. They were no longer water, but all-devouring dark beasts! With an absolute will to destroy everything, they slammed down upon the island of Númenor with relentless force.

Rómenna's pristine white towers snapped and shattered like fragile reeds; the magnificent harbor, along with its anchored ships, was instantly reduced to dust; fertile fields, bustling streets, the magnificent palace... all the proud creations of human civilization crumbled and melted like sandcastles before the black tide! Countless tiny figures struggled and screamed in the floodwaters, swallowed up in an instant, leaving not even a ripple... The entire island of Númenor, as if pressed forcefully by an invisible giant hand into a boiling sea of ​​ink, sank, disintegrated, and vanished. Only the boundless, inky black sea, churning with foam and debris, and deathly silence... absolute, dead silence.

Meereen jolted awake from a nightmare, drenched in cold sweat, his heart pounding. The roar of destruction and the vision of surging black waves lingered in his mind. An icy sea breeze blew in through the cracks in the window, bringing with it the salty smell of the real world, but it couldn't dispel the bone-chilling chill deep within his soul. This was no ordinary nightmare; it was a warning of an irreversible fate, borne from the will of Ilúvatar.

He no longer hesitated and had to set foot on the land of Numenor himself to see with his own eyes how close the edge of the abyss was! He quickly contacted Gandalf and Radagast.

"Gandalf, Radagast," Meereen's voice was more solemn than ever. "The shadow of Númenor has become a calamity, oppressing Middle-earth and defiling the Valar. I have seen a terrible sight, and I must go there. Please take good care of Middle-earth, especially those tribes displaced by Númenor's oppression. The situation may change drastically, and we must prepare early."

Gandalf sensed the seriousness of the situation from Meereen's pale face and the lingering fear in his eyes. He nodded vigorously, the flame of his pipe flickering in the darkness. "Go with confidence, Meereen. We will do our best to protect the glimmer of light in Middle-earth. May the stars guide your path and bring you the wisdom and warnings you deserve." Radagast also rarely lost his focus on the birds and beasts, his face serious beneath his brown robe. "The forests and fields will tell us about the shifting winds. Be careful, the atmosphere of that island... has changed."

Meereen once again disguised himself as a humble yet experienced seafaring merchant, boarding a large merchant ship bound for the main island of Númenor. The voyage was uneventful, but as the outline of the fabled kingdom of men appeared on the horizon, Meereen's heart sank. Under the sun, the city of Rómenna remained magnificent, its white buildings gleaming in the sunlight, its massive harbor masts towering. Yet, Meereen keenly sensed a lack of something in the air, a halo of hope and vitality that once permeated this land, a faint connection to Valinor. In its place was a dull, indescribable sense of oppression, masked by immense material prosperity.

Upon setting foot on Númenorian soil, Meereen did not rush to the bustling city of Rómenna. He first came to a quiet hill on the edge of the city, overlooking the sea. Here lay the burial place of Tar-Minyatur, Númenor's founding monarch. Elros's tomb, simple yet powerful, was a simple reminder of the spirit with which he founded this great kingdom: wisdom, courage, and a profound understanding of human destiny and the teachings of the Valar. A small patch of evergreens grew lushly in Númenor's warm climate.

Meereen stood before the tomb, laying a bouquet of white flowers he had bought at the harbor. He stood quietly, his cloak ruffling in the sea breeze. He gazed at the ancient inscription on the tombstone, his thoughts swirling. How heartbroken and enraged would this monarch, who had chosen the fate of mankind and forged such a great legacy, be to see his descendants now possessing a pathological greed for immortality, cruelly oppressing their fellow citizens in Middle-earth, and openly defying the decrees of the Valar? The very foundations of Númenor, cherished by Elros and the foundations upon which the nation was founded—reverence for the Valar, acceptance of death, and commitment to humanity's destiny—be now being shattered by the hands of the Númenoreans themselves. This grief even overwhelmed the fear brought on by the prophetic dream.

After entering the city of Rómenna, Meereen deliberately mingled among the common people. What he saw and heard confirmed and far exceeded his initial concerns.

In the bustling market, he no longer heard gratitude for a good harvest or anticipation for a good voyage, but rather discussions filled with resentment and disrespect:

"Taxes have increased again this year! They say they want to build bigger ships... Who knows if His Majesty the King wants to build a new palace again?"

"I heard that some rich mines have been discovered in Zhongzhou. The warlords sent there are really ruthless. The natives are almost forced to rebel."

"Vera? Oh, if they really cared about us, why didn't they let us live forever? Wouldn't it be fun to watch us die off generation after generation?"

"Look how free the elves are. The ban is because they're afraid we humans will become too powerful."

These words were not whispered in dark corners, but were spoken in broad daylight, among the bustling crowds, by ordinary vendors, craftsmen and even housewives, with resentment and a twisted sense of entitlement.

In the luxuriously decorated taverns and salons of the aristocratic district, the atmosphere was even more exposed and dangerous. With his merchant status and generous samples, Milin was able to enter some semi-public places. He heard the elegantly dressed men and women discussing in reserved but longing tones:

"Your Majesty has made great progress in his recent explorations of the East. It is said that he has discovered several ancient tribes, and their priests seem to possess some interesting secrets."

"Eternal life is the ultimate pursuit! Wealth and power are merely stepping stones on the road to eternity. If the Valar won't give it to us, we'll find it ourselves."

"There must be secrets in the blood of the elves. Or go directly to the west, there must be the answers in that forbidden land." There was a fanatical light in the eyes of the person who said this.

What shocked Meereen even more was that he even saw shrines symbolizing the Valar abandoned and covered with dust in the gardens of some noble mansions, and replaced by some strangely shaped totems and altars full of exotic or evil aura.

The fall of Númenor was deeper, faster, and more complete than he had imagined. From the resentment of the common people to the madness of the nobles, from greed for material things to the morbid pursuit of immortality, from questioning the prohibitions to open blasphemy... the entire kingdom was like a magnificently decorated and powerful ship, driven by the captain's madness and greed, heading full speed towards the forbidden reefs that the Valar had long ago marked as absolutely untouchable.

Sitting in the inn room overlooking the palace spires, Meereen spread out a new parchment. He no longer recorded plants and animals, but with heavy, precise strokes, he recorded what he had seen and heard in Númenor: the cries of refugees at the harbor, the complaints in the marketplace, the dangerous plots in the nobles' salons, and the desolation and warning at the tomb of Elros.

He rolled up these records and prepared to send them out in the most secret way. He had to let the White Council, Lindon, and everyone still awake know. The shadow of Númenor was no longer a distant whisper, but a dark wave enveloping Middle-earth, about to unleash a devastating storm! And he must linger longer in this sunken land, dive deeper, to seek the most central secrets and possible solutions within the eye of the storm. The surging black waves in his premonition seemed to be surging just outside the window.